A good dream only
by SpeckintheUniverse
Summary: A bit of fluff regarding Katniss coping with the aftermath of the war, and all that she's done. Can Peeta be enough to save her?


**A/N: This is my first story published on fanfiction, so reviews with constructive criticism would be much appreciated!**

Heavy breathing and footsteps were the only noise that polluted an otherwise silent night. The blurred outline of a figure could be seen stumbling through course bushes at the base of the Victor's Village complex, drawing ever closer. However, the intruder seemed not to be much of an intruder at all, for upon closure inspection, it reached the flight of stairs nearest to the entry gates, collapsed in a heap beneath them and cried.

The fugitive was none other than a very overwhelmed Katniss Everdeen, and she lay crumpled and nearly hyperventilating under the porch stairs. Tear-streaked, she clutched at her shirt and in a desperate attempt to quell her anguish, stuffed a handful of the course material into her mouth. She continued her muted wailing, silent sobs wracking her person until her breathing returned to normal and she was as out of tears as a towel squeezed and wrung out to dry in the wind. Her arms felt heavy to lift, her heart was heavier still. She was not the crying type, but there was too much, all the time, and she could not take it in. Her quota for life was full and she was growing tired from keeping up the charades: wake up and try to imagine the pain of loss is not intense and consuming, eat, trade, clean, socialize, and do all with a smile so thick and stifling that no one could accuse her of grief. Then finally, relief: a sliver of time to hunt, to breathe.

That had been her life for the past few months, except now even hunting, her one true solace, could no longer provide her with the comfort it used to. Seeing Peeta, who used to be such a source of joy to her, also more often caused confusion, for her battered soul had been led astray so many times, she no longer knew what to think about anything. He would find her around the house and search her face with his eyes, deep and yielding as chasms, and she would turn away, unable to hold his gaze and ashamed to try. She resented him staying resolutely by her side, like a loyal dog awaiting its master, for it meant that when the suffocation got too much, she would bring him down with her. And that was something she would not, could not stand. The more Peeta tried to ease her back from the brink of herself, the more she had to shunt him away. This more than anything, was flaking away the tough resolve that coated her closely-guarded hearted faster each day, like the ancient paint on the exterior of her house.

This comparison brought her swiftly back to the present, where she picked herself up and numbly ascended the stairs, absent-mindedly combing leaf litter from her wind caressed locks. It was nearly dawn, she noted, and it both thrilled and scared her that the only sound she could her were the erratic palpitations of her heart. Her blood seemed to fizz and she was almost glad she had succumbed to the weight of the world. Her head felt remarkably clearer now, her limbs a little lighter. She recalled fighting with Peeta, running off halfway because she couldn't bear it, and wandering mindlessly through the forest, losing all sense of time and orientation. Gradually the trees had thinned and she found herself running to Peeta, running home. It had seemed so right, so natural, that she hadn't even felt like she was moving. And now, having physically let out what had been bubbling inside her for so long, she was cautiously testing the weight of her feet on the door's threshold, should Peeta hear her and look at her with those eyes again. In one look she felt he could ask a million questions of her, and she did not deserve his attention. The slight twitch of his mouth when she behaved like a temperamental child: she also could not bear his disapproval.

She had lost so many people, who she just knew, if still alive, would be doing a substantially better job of…._everything_. They would be helping people, improving lives, making the most of _their_ lives, while she felt that her life was wasted on her. Prim, with her small, cool hands, would be tending to sick patients like their mother.

Katniss could picture her, slowly up from the patient and through her soul, disappointment radiating from her and making her _feel_ what a waste of life she was. She was only a burden to many, a mystery to all, and all the sacrifices for her to be here did not lessen the load she carried. And yet Peeta, who had every reason to be much the same, was not. He was dramatically contrasting to her wild and stormy moods, although he too had lost everything, and that was just another reason that she did not deserve him. In the aftermath of the war, he had learned to thrive while she was being worn away under pressure and over time like a boulder on the shores of a relentless and raging sea.

She reached with trembling hands for the scratched and off-centred doorknob that was the preface to her home. The old door groaned in protest as she gently pushed it open. Holding her breath, she continued down the hallway and closed the door behind her. When she entered the living cosy living room her heart ached at the familiarity of it all: the rust coloured walls and cluttered bench tops, Peeta's unframed paintings scattered over the walls, Buttercup curled athletically around a table leg, Katniss' parents' wedding photo. At the sight of the last item, her throat seized up but she willed herself not to be weak, and kneeled down to the glowing embers of the fire. It was then that she heard a soft murmuring from behind her, and in shock she whirled around to find Peeta on the couch. At first she thought he might be dead, such was the innocence emitted from the sleeping figure. His face, illuminated by the remnants of the fire, was slack and care-free. An arm dusted with freckles was ducked, child-like under his chin and a wavy lock of hair obscures one of his eyes. Pulled over his broad frame is the patch-work quilt her mother had left as a gift on one of her visits.

Suddenly, Peeta thrashed out and let loose a torrent of unintelligible sound. His golden-brown eyes wrenched open and starred right at Katniss' own. She started forward and sat down beside him, worried he was regressing back to when his memories were hijacked by the Capitol. "Peeta?" she said tentatively. At first, she elicited no response. Then: "Katniss." Katniss gasped audibly and drew back, but Peeta's arm had moved from under his chin and now firmly locked around her own. "Katniss, please stay, I had a bad dream again," Peeta almost whimpered. She didn't know whether it was the soft pleading of his voice, or the way he had said 'again', but she felt compelled to wriggle closer. He would not remember this anyway, she reasoned. She leaned in further, breathing in the scent of him: pine and dirt and flour. There was a sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and a few stray hairs clung to it in the dim light. She caressed his now worried face, smoothing back his blond hair while he slowly returned to his slumber.

Peeta eventually broke the silence. "You are here for me because you care. Real or not real?" She held her breath. "Not real." Then there was nothing but the ironically merry crackle of the fire. "I won't ever leave you Peeta. I need you too much," she whispers to him when she is quite certain he is asleep. She is not sure why she felt the need to speak her mind, but at least she would not have to deal with the repercussions since Peeta was practically comatose. Tired out at last and emotionally drained, she stumbles up to bed.

…..

Peeta stirred from his makeshift bed on the couch, his thoughts clouded and fuzzy. As he propped himself upright: _Katniss…..fight…gone..._

He struggled up and off the couch, brushing his blanket aside, quite worried now. What if she hadn't returned? Those things he'd said weren't true, after all. He had hated himself so passionately when she had caught his gaze as she'd fled. She had looked as fragile and brittle as a china cup and he wanted more than anything to hold her so she would never break again. But that was a fleeting moment, and then there was nothing. She had slipped through his grasp again.

He stepped lightly over mismatched carpets and into the kitchen, its amber walls silently greeting him. Also greeting him was a pile of dirty dishes he had 'left for later' last night. He groaned and went straight past them, lamely figuring that ignoring them would diminish the amount that had to be done. One hand was tugging open a cupboard when his sleepy eyes wandered past the length of his arm and took in a surly Katniss sipping tea. He nearly jumped out of his skin in fright, and slammed the cupboard door violently. If Katniss had heard the clutter, she paid it no attention. Just relieved that she was back safely, Peeta's heart soared at the messy sight of her: the way one untameable curl dangled near her mug, around which her hands gripped tightly, and the slight flush of her face in the early morning cool. It was very unusual for her to be up at this hour, he mused. Normally he had to practically drag her from bed, and yet, here she was. He shook his head in disbelief; she would never cease to amaze him.

There were so many questions on the tip of his tongue: where she had gone, what she was thinking, if she could forgive him for what he'd said. But all that came out was: "You wouldn't believe what an amazing dream I had last night."

He couldn't quite be sure, but he thought he saw Katniss give a small smirk into her steaming mug.


End file.
